


Hands Off! (From the Head Detective)

by Grigiocuore



Category: Psych
Genre: Charming Rival, Crime, Established Relationship, Jealousy, Love Triangles, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Shawn trying to grow up, Vikings, Vulnerable Lassiter, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/pseuds/Grigiocuore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the most classic story: the Girl, the Lover, the Other. Except that the Girl is a stern Head Detective, the Lover a breakneck psychic, and the Other a charming profiler. What could go wrong? Well, probably everything. Romance, crime, fluff, Viking traditions and a go-kart race, all soaked in Psych Madness. Established Shassie, Gus/Jules in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Pick On Shawn" Day - - in which Shawn Spencer gets repeatedly threatened by his own friends and an old friend comes from the past-

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys: welcome to my first Psych-o longfic! If you love overprotective Jules, Gus eating every edible items, Shawn being himself and Lassie in every shades, this is you place. Serious note: I love writing this story, but chapters are pretty long, so updating won't be speedy. Let me know what you prefer, if short but fast episodes or this solution. I'm open to suggestion. It's settled, well, somewhere between fourth and fifth season, in what I think as the Psych Golden Age.   
> Okay, let's begin, and I really hope you would enjoy the ride. Reviews make me a better person.

“ **Pick on Shawn” Day**

**\- in which Shawn Spencer gets repeatedly threatened by his own friends and an old friend comes from the past-**

After years of dutiful observation, Juliet O'Hara had identified three phases in her partner's bad moods, and she had also learned to recognize them with nearly infallible precision. As in every good investigation, the secret was in the details. 

The first step was the Bland Grumpiness, the most manageable one: some more yells than usual, snapping remarks to every poor thing crossing his path, McNab summoned imperiously every minute. A sprinkle of cocoa powder on the coffee and a jackass to grill in the interrogation room, and he would be almost tolerable. 

Then there was the Danger Zone Grumpiness, which means improbable aphorisms through gritted teeth, alarming twitches on the gun holster and a walk likely to run over his grandma's body; but all you need to do is chastise him during a stakeout and offer him a Vanilla Cola at the end of the shift. Nothing special. 

And the third one, well, the third one was the Blue Grumpiness, when he became a sort of gloomy, rancorous beast roaming around the precinct. It usually meant not only that he was really pissed off, but that someone had hurt him badly; and it's was the worst one, because it made you miserable both as partner and spiritual sister. 

At twelve o'clock she was sure it was the third one. Carlton was a ball of rage sulking on his chair, and aside form the curses thrown to two terrorized rookies, he didn't say a word in the whole morning. 

She furrowed her brow. -Detective, are you okay?- He generally reacted to the “detective” part. 

-Sure. Why?- 

She glanced at the wrecked thing sprawled over his desk. -You had practically tortured that burrito.- 

He froze with the fork midair. -I'm just eating.- 

-Usually _eating_ doesn't imply stabbing food like a serial killer.- She shook her heard. -Seriously, Carlton, you should calm down a bit. Come on, it's your favorite, cheese and apple chutney.- 

For a terrible moment she was sure he would throw someone the food and the desk as well, but instead he just kept staring at the snack. He suddenly began to talk, mesmerized. 

-Yes, you're right, O'Hara: burritos are good. I mean, they're spicy, they have that sticky richness which drips everywhere and you just can't forget, but you have to be cautious in eating one of them, because if you just go ahead and bit it and it's not the time already it will burn your tongue and nearly choke you, until it disintegrate your heart in little cheddar-cheesy bits, and all you can do will be drinking a lot of sugary coffee and ask yourself how eating a damn burrito could go so _wrong_.- He gradually rose his voice along with his words, stabbing his poor lunch more and more viciously. When he finished he was panting, eyes bulging and blazing like blue supernovas. Someone was _so_ going to be shot. 

-What?!- he barked in the shocked silence. -I don't like burritos. I _despise_ them.- 

He got up, storming out down the corridor. Someone up there let out a shaken squeak, after a crush of falling papers and a loud roar. - _I hate burritos_!- 

Juliet sighed, sinking in her chair. -Okay, no burritos for this week.- she whispered. 

When Shawn entered the buzzing rush of the station, he instantly knew three things: 

one, someone still had to fix the water loss in the main bathroom; 

two, the Head Detective was in a terror-spreading frenzy; that, or every single cop had just seen a Bigfoot; 

three, judging by Juliet's pace, he was in _big_ trouble. 

-Uh, Juliet seems wrathful.- Gus observed, sucking the last drops of milkshake from the straw. -What did you do, Shawn?- 

His friend shot him a glare. -Why should automatically be my fault?- he protested -and don't make up words. “Wrathful”, seriously?- 

Before Gus could do more than open his mouth, their beautiful detective friend stopped before them, arms crossed and brows furrowed. 

-Hi, Jules- the fake psychic greeted -I should wear sunglasses, you're dazzling today.- 

-What did you do?- she growled, anything but sunny. 

-Ehy, what's that, the “Pick on Shawn” Day?- he tilted his head, annoyed. -Do what to whom, first? Context, please.- 

-To your _boyfriend_ \- she hissed -You know, tall, a passion for horses and cupcakes, the one who wears a gun _all the time_.- 

-Cupcakes?- Gus's eyebrows shot upward. 

Shawn plunged his hands in the pockets, sighing. He had the uncomfortable feeling he felt when leaving Santa Barbara: the sensation that everything was coming down on him, that he can't just jumping and waltzing around without touching the others, without _hurting_ them. But _no_ , this time it wasn't his fault. He never said he would do anything; he said he would try, not do it. He remembered the night before, the shouts, the silence, and those _damn blue eyes_ that didn't hold back anything. It wasn't his fault. Period. 

-Weeell, it's kinda possible I and Lassie-face had a little... _disagreement,_ last night.- 

Two no-nonsense glares fixed upon him. 

Juliet suddenly nabbed them from the collar, dragging them both near the secretary counter. -What kind of disagreement?- She spat. -The “You burned the moka again” argument- _Ehi, it has happened just once_ -or the tear-jerking argument?-. 

-Ah, I don't have a so accurate case list, Jules- he replied, scratching nervously the back of his neck. -Seriously, it's not that bad: it's just us, I mean, we _live_ bickering...- 

-Shawn.- 

He sighed again. He couldn't push back, and retreat didn't seem an option. 

He just hoped in a clean death. -I may have said I don't want to live with him.- 

Suddenly the precinct seemed very silent, even in the buzz of steps and phone rings. Gus was the first to react. -And you're _still alive_?- 

Juliet shook her head, licking her lips; he didn't like that. He didn't like knowing that she can imagine way too well the way Lassie went rigid, withdrawing in his damn steel fortress and waiting for the next blow. _His_ next blow. 

_Not. His. Fault._

-No, don't worry Gus, Carlton won't kill him. For this reason, at least.- 

-I don't know how it works for you guys, but you say no because you're not enough...involved?- Gus was too wise to use the “L” word. -I thought it was a pretty serious thing.- 

-Uh, not, it's not that. I think it's just me being me.- Shawn scratched his neck more viciously. 

-You see, yesterday I went to him and Lassie set up a glory of dinner, even the pineapple pudding, and all was well; we were chatting and I was telling him how many burritos Gus gulped down at lunch, _come on man, you should be proud_ , when he just said it.- He sighed, leaning his head on the Plexiglas wall. -And I...sort of freaked out. I laughed and laughed, he got angry, went all dramatic hero-style, and I said a lot of...well, a lot of things.- 

Gus grimaced like he had just swallowed a lemon. -Things like what?- 

-Like he's suffocating and petty, that he pretend to stick his stupid rules even in my life and that he's a pathetic control-freak wanting to see everyone settled down in a cottage with a dog and three dumb fat children.- 

This time Gus was swallowing a pineapple with all the barbs. -Shawn, that was mean _even_ for you.- 

-Ehy, dude, you know that sometimes my mouth just goes on and on before I can understand it. It's like a curse.- 

-Don't _even try_ the Curse charade- Jules growled. Yes, his pretty, sweet, reasonable friend actually growled. She took a step forward, jabbing one finger in Shawn's chest. 

-You realized what you did?- A shove. -Carlton exposed for you, he offered you something he didn't even think to have again; and you refused with no explanation, and hurt him deliberately.-Another blow, sending him two steps backward. -You messed with my partner.- One last shove. -And nobody. Messes. With my. _Partner_.- She managed not to rise her voice, but somehow the low-tune menace was even more creepy. _Whoa, overprotective Jules vs. furious Henry, that'll be the millennium match._

-Ah, guys- Gus whispered. -We're starting to get a little too attention.- 

The two cast a glance to the rest of the station. All the officers were trying to win a Nonchalance Competition, dividing cautious looks between them and the arch where the Head Detective had disappeared. That seemed to mollify Jules a little, or at least her finger stopped stabbing his chest; with a last glare she turned, storming out through the crowd of uniforms and voices. 

Shawn cleared his throat, trying to swallow the sour lump somewhere in his pharynx. It probably was the chili dog at eight a. m. Yeah, definitively just the chili dog. -Whoa, dude, you truly saved my ass this time. I was fairly sure she would rip out my heart in a bloody pulp.- 

Gus delivered him a shove, keeping walking next to him. -Don't think I approve, Shawn. Lassiter can be a border-line militarist, but what you did was rather insensitive.- 

He stopped. -C'mon, Gus, that is not fair; a guy has the right to refuse a commitment, he can't accept to live with someone just not to disappoint him.- 

Gus gave him his Older Brother glare. -Sure, but you refused for the wrong reason.- 

Shawn rocked on his heels and suddenly felt annoyed, especially because the sour slump didn't want to _get down_. -Ah, don't be a matted Teddy Bear. It's us, we'll manage: we just work like this, and we enjoy it. - 

-I'm not so sure, Shawn.- 

A rush of shoes and whispered apologizes made them look up. Carlton Lassiter was standing next to his desk, some reports in his hands; with the pale face and the long lashes curving over stormy blue eyes, he resembled even more some exiled warrior prince. 

The fake psychic smiled, feeling the gulp swelling and melting at the same time. Now Carlton would make a living hell for the next two-three days, he would leave a donut on his desk for a week, and before they knew it Lassie would be yelling at him and searching his hand under the desk. 

_Because after all, that was how it worked_ . 

In that exact moment the precinct doors opened, and every pair of eyes glued to the entrance. 

And a tingle run down Shawn's spine. 

Something happened in the police station: a shiver, a submerged current of interest and curiosity spreading in waves of peeks and whisperings. Oh, it must be something gorgeous, like a gruesome cutted head or a guy in a panda costume. 

He and Gus turned around. 

_Or maybe not._

Near the doors was a good-looking man walking along the desks. But “good-looking” was not the right word. Broad shoulders, shiny blond locks swirling around strong cheekbones, the pure-white shirt revealing a triangle of tanned skin; he had to be in his late thirties, but the subtle marks around his eyes just brought out their aquamarine green, matching the gray of his jacket. He advanced with fluid strokes, like some sort of powerful and golden feline. Shawn almost swore he was moving in slow motion. 

-He's like a less hyperactive Bon Jovi.- he muttered. 

-I don't know if feeling compelled or threatened in my masculinity.- Gus murmured back. 

-Welcome to my world.- 

The rest of the precinct seemed to share the feeling, judging by the female officers' hungry smirks and the male ones' defensive poses. Buzz was slowing his pace, probably catching a third grade burns from the steaming coffee in his hand; Jules wasn't losing a single movement; even the chief was spending a suspiciously long time in the break area. 

But Shawn wasn't checking _their_ reactions. 

The Head Detective was staring at the new arrival with mesmerized astonishment; _and nothing else_. No hint of suspect, no evaluating gaze, not the start of paranoia that made him such a good cop; just amazement, plus something darker and softer he couldn't fully understand. 

While Shawn began to frown Mistery Man waved at Lassie, casting him a thousand watts smile. 

-Carlton- he called, voice smooth and rich like old wine. 

_Carlton?_

-Adam- Lassie breathed. 

The man in gray moved forward with an handful of long-legged steps, and then happened something that really supported the Alternative Universe hypothesis: he hugged Lassie. A _real_ hug, arms wrapped around his figure and fingers clasping his back without any hesitation. And Lassiter didn't jerk back. He went stiffy, sure, but his hands slowly rose, easily finding their place on the man's shoulders. 

By then everyone was shamelessly staring. 

-It's so good to see you- Mystery Guy exclaimed. -When I found out that the tough Head Detective of Santa Barbara was you I couldn't stop grinning. Then again I always knew you would do what you said.- He squeezed Carlton's arm. 

-Ah, I suppose so.- The soft thing in the cop's eyes grew wider. -What are you doing here?-. 

-Whoa, Carlton, you're always _so_ subtle.- He laughed, a fairly normal laugh, not too graceful and not too squeaking. 

Shawn neared cautiously, hoping neither detectives would shoot him. 

-Let me have a wild guess- he prompted in. -You're an ex-model fond of knitted coats for kittens and with a fetishism per mimes.- 

Lassiter's stare dropped the temperature to an ice age level. -We don't need you, _Spencer_.- That word had implications Shawn was not eager to explore. 

Mystery Guy arched an eyebrow, but he didn't lose a single detail. 

-Uh, actually no, I'm not a rather freakish ex-model, sorry to disappoint you.- He looked at them all. -I'm Adam Browsby, Profiler for the LA Police.- 

-And I called him here for the Poet's Case.- The terse voice and tickling of heels announced the chief. Vick eyed them, glimpsed the ice knives slashing among her detectives and took a strategic position out of the fire line. -Mr. Browsby, nice to meet you. We really appreciate you could come here with so little notice.- 

Browsby smiled his blinding smile, shaking hands. -My pleasure, madam.- 

-And I deem to understand that you and Detective Lassiter already knew each other.- 

Lassie rose his face, smiling too. Not the twisted grin he used with suspects, neither the smug smirk of the agog moments, but the little, real smile that Shawn forced from him only with painful heart-talk. And sometimes cookies. 

-Yes, that's right. Adam and I went to high school together and we were very good friends.- Was there an hesitation in Lassie's voice? 

-As to say, he helped me with History and I helped him not to look like a vacuum salesman.- 

Gus snorted, only to be elbowed by Jules. 

-Well, I have to watch all your dumb football games.- 

Adam talked as if he was not new to Lassie-bickering. -And I froze at every figure skating exhibition.- 

Dead silence. _Tu-dudu-duun._

-Ops- Adam whispered. -You didn't tell them. It's a pity, you were rea...-. 

Lassie gave off a sound between a growl and a cough. -Err, shouldn't we make a brainstorming or something like that?- 

Before anyone could comment he sprang forward toward the chief's office. -McNab, the report, _now_.- 

Adam watched him, practically beaming. 

_Geez, do I ever watch Gus that way?_

When the chief excused herself and went looking for Henry, Juliet stretched her hand, super blazing smile in place. -I'm Juliet O'Hara, Lassiter's partner.- She was using her sugary beach babe voice. -If there's something I can do for you, just ask.- 

-I would like a bunny wearing tiny sunglasses.- Shawn offered. -And a parrot in tuxedo for my friend.- 

Jules's eyes switched instantly to murderous. -I was _not_ talking to you.- 

Adam squirmed a little. -Ah, thank you, detective. It's a very considerate thought.- 

Jules giggled, _yeah, actually giggled_ , casting radiant glances over the shoulder as she walked after her colleagues. 

_Creepier and creepier._

Shawn neared the rather puzzled man. -Well, welcome to the cheery world of SBPD, open all day - but please don't feed the detectives: they _bite_.- 

Adam turned slowly, one golden eyebrow elegantly arched. -I should suppose you're the Psychic Consultant of the Department? I've heard you're re very peculiar.- 

-They never accused me of that- the younger man commented, giving him an handshake. -Shawn Spencer, psych detective, and this is my partner, Klaus Von Strudellein. He comes from Transylvania, just like Freud and Dracula.- 

-Freud came from Vienna, Shawn.- Gus pointed out. 

-Exactly, in _Transylvania_.- 

-Ah...okay, sure- Adam nodded, shrugging and making even that look graceful. -It's a pleasure. I'll like to talk with you later, but shouldn't we go in now?- 

Shawn let out a chuckle. -Ah, we usually don't “go in”, big A. We rather...- _Peek from the window, get caught and then grudgingly admitted._

Adam's lips quirked. -Let me guess, Carl calls you only if he really needs something and even then makes it look like it physically pains him.- 

-If it's a good day.- 

Browsby sneered, patting their shoulders. -Oh, you should have seen him at the _music classes_. Now come on, I'm sure you can sneak in after me.- 

As he strode out, Gus blinked like a round-headed deer in the headlights. -He's nice. He's _actually_ being nice with two idiots like us.- 

-Rude, Gus, but you're right.- Shawn grinned. -I bet we'll have a very good time with him.- 

He kept smiling, lazily checking through the shutters of the chief's office. Yeah, he knew he should think about how to make up with Lassie-face, _and maybe get rid of the sour knot in his throat_ , but he also knew that for him it didn't work that way; he preferred throw everything and everyone in life rush, hold on them tightly and wait for them to find a new pattern. Not that it worked perfectly in the past, but hey, no plan is perfect. So he would just try to find out what fabulous shampoo their new playmate used, lead one of his own super-cool investigations and somehow end up laughing and running and screaming with his friends like nothing happened. _And_ maybe in the process Browsby would also reveal other dirty secrets of Lassie's teenage years. 

_How could he ask for more?_

Behind the glass windows he saw Adam whispering something to the Head Detective, Lassie leaning naturally on him. 

Suddenly Shawn felt way less excited. 


	2. In Best Friends We Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chief presents the case to the gang, but Shawn just can't focus. And it's even worse than usual. Lassie nearly shoots him and definitively isn't happy. Jules has to give up on her Courtship Project with Adam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Second chap. I know, it has been ages, but it's pretty long and, I hope, worth of the waiting. I actually tried to elaborate a good case story, so let me know what you think about it. Lot of friendship and humor in it. Thanks again._
> 
> _Dedicated to my best friend, of course_ . 

**In Best Friends We Trust**

– **In which Shawn gets even more distracted than usual, Gus eats all the mini-tarts and Juliet made a rather interesting discovery-**

Shawn had always liked the Chief's office. Apart from the kittens' calendar hidden behind the ficus and all the shiny little things you could play with, it was there he had some of his most brilliant intuitions; it was there the revelations popped out and the plots suddenly twisted, it was there every adventure started and finished. The office was like a sort of starship: you never knew where it would dump you, and God, he _loved_ that sensation. So now he was there, ready and excited and willing. 

Except for the fact he had heard no more than two words. 

Not that he usually listened to all the pre-case talking, or to the eighty percent, or to the thirty. But during the years he had developed a infallible strategy where he could catching the key words while still zoning out. Actually, it was in those random mind- wanderings that he found his connections or the best pranks for Gus and Lassie. Today however the problem is exactly that: he _couldn't_ wander. Or meglio, he wandered in a single direction. 

_And he says_ I' _m distracting._

He slumped in his chair, casting another look to said direction. From the moment the reunion began Lassie didn't say him a single word: not a not-so flattering remark, not the roll of eyes that went with every of their apparizione. He simply ignored them, talking and staring above their heads as you do with a plastic cactus, and with more or less the same emotion. 

It was nearly outrageous. Like every maverick person, Shawn needed the ones around him to supply his life's certainties and his grumpy detective wasn't supposed to be indifferent; pissed, smug, melancholic, blissfully unaware of his own social awkwardness, of course. But not so _far_ , after all those years and tiny steps. 

No, that was just plain weird. And the worst thing was that with the rest of the gang he was normal, even a little cheerer: he exchanged buddy looks with Jules, asked the Chief about her daughter, sat down comfortably near Henry. And near Adam. 

The two of them had exchanged no more than two words, some banal comments about traffic and good bakeries in Santa Barbara; but the important wasn't the words they said. It was the _way_ they said them. 

Adam talked leaning in, patting Lassie's knee and making him smile, as if his steely fortress didn't even exist and reaching him, _really_ reaching him, was the simplest thing in the world; Lassie moved naturally, even easy-going. Then his gaze accidentally fell on Shawn, and it turned in pure unforgiving stone. 

The psychic sunk deeper. It was bad being under it. It was bad knowing that he and no one else was the cause of that gaze. 

A sudden jab made him practically jumping in the ceiling neons. 

-Gosh, Gus- he sibilò – You nearly broke my thirteenth rib!- 

-No one has a thirteenth rib- Gus gave him his Teacher Scowl. -And you didn't answer the Chief's question.- 

Shawn looked around, finally realizing that several pairs of eyes were staring expectantly. And that he didn't have the slightest idea of what he was supposed to say. 

-Oh, err, yes, of course.- He cleared his throat. -And the answer is yes, of course, Gus really still bathe with his plastic duckies.- 

His best friend whined, and Henry rubbed his forehead. 

Vick blinked. -I asked you if you have any intuitions about this case, Spencer.- 

-So you could clearly see the connection.- 

The Chief didn't even bother to comment, and sighed. -Okay, I deduce it's better do a little recap of the case mainlines, if this is not too boring for our psychic detective.- 

Everyone waited for Lassiter's snort. He didn't even look at Shawn. 

Vick opened a drawer, pulling out a heap of photos. 

-We have two victims, a man and a woman. The man was John Johnanson, forty-five, married, the woman Rebecca McGoran, thirty-three, married, two kids. The first body has been found on Monday morning near the north-west wood, the second on Thursday evening in the creek. The only common points are the way the killer murdered them, and the fact they were both police officers.- 

-And the fact that he's called like an “Alice in Wonderland” character.- 

-The Disney version or the Tim Burton version?- Gus asked. 

-The Disney version, of course.- 

-In what PD they worked, Chief?- Henry chimed in after a well-landed kick to their chairs. 

-They were both part of the Public Administration department- Lassiter answered -and attualmente they were both working on a big case of fraud: we don't have the details, but looks like it involved some pretty important characters; it could be a valuable lead.- He crossed his legs in that adorable falsely-casual way; when he rose his face and saw Adam's smirk, he blushed. Yeah, he _blushed_ , and didn't even try to touch his gun. _Creepy, creepier than ever._

The chief nodded, throwing Shawn and Gus a bunch of reports with way more violence than needed. -Talking about the killer's modus operandi, the victims have several cut wounds, especially on the torso and the arms; we also found struggle evidences, but no DNA. Is that all, Detective?- 

-The bodies have been recovered wrapped in some sort of wicker, hands crossed, tidy posture; and near them was a letter.- Lassie got up, one hip leaning lightly against the desk. God, the way his shirt was stretching should be _illegal_. -Written with a computer, no blood traces, no prints; the psycho is good.- 

Adam blazed him with a ridiculously radiant smile. -So are you, from my sources.- 

Carlton lowered abruptly his head, and giggled. _Oh Gosh, I'm in the Twilight Zone, is official._

The others shared some looks, then Browsby talked again. 

-What the letter says?- 

-Ah, yes, of course- Lassie switched on Serious Cop again. -The letter's text was rather enigmatic, too.- He turned, activating the mini-projector, and the photo of an unfolded paper sheet appeared on the screen. As Lassie began to read, Shawn leaned in. 

-“Listen, listen gentle people. Here lays one of the last warriors, the ones who fought the snakes of guilt and embraced blazing swords, who stepped through the circle of flames and ravaged their own eyes. He fought with fierceness, died drenched in blood and cinder. Raise a chant for his soul, and don't leave his body to the dogs' craving teeth”.- 

A thoughtful silence fell upon them. 

-Whoa, it's way better than my entry at the high school Poetry Contest.- Shawn commented, being instantly elbowed by Gus and incinerated by his dad and Jules' glares. 

Not even a glare from the Lassie-zone. -The writer, we don't know if he's also the killer, looks fairly cultured, judging by the terms and the period constructions.- 

Adam shifted on his chair. -Yes, some circumlocutions almost remind me....- 

-... of an historical preparation, yes- Carlton grinned. -It's exactly what I've thought.- 

Shawn rolled his eyes. 

_Another nerd for me. Perfect._

-Anyway, the most probable hypothesis so far is that the letter is a mockery.- Jules explained -The solemnity, the mention of the “last warriors”, they don't really make sense with an administrative job. Moreover, the victims haven't physically taken part in action in years.- 

-Well, it seems a quite interesting option.- Browsby stretched to the screen, brushing Juliet's arm for the briefest moment. Shawn didn't miss her soft blush, neither Gus's wince. -But...I'm not completely sure. The mockery seems an understandable option, but have you ever think that the writer could be serious?- 

The Chief began to tap the pencil on the desk, not realizing it was her daughter's Disney Princess pen. -Please elaborate, Mr. Browsby.- 

-The style is redundant, but not excessive; if it really was a mockery, we should have found a lot more of exaggeration, in the words, the analogies, the message; here there is anger, but also...well, also some sort of melancholy. And this is way more dangerous.- 

Lassie frowned. -How much are you sure?- 

-Eighty percent.- 

The detective nodded again, and gave him a friendly way of his X-rays gaze. _Drum roll_. 

-Okay, for me it's enough.- 

-What?- Shawn was not whining, definitively. -When I say I'm two-hundred percent sure you still harass me to no end!- 

Lassie jerked toward him, and he was pretty sure to have glimpsed a pair of fangs. Before her consultant got mutilated on the spot the Chief stepped in. -Uh, yes, your suggestion is intriguing, Mr. Browsby, and I want you to take immediate part in the investigation.- She turned to Gus. -And I also want to hire the “Psych”, considering the gravity of the case. I truly, _truly_ recommend you to avoid personal matters during work. Understood?- 

-Sure thing, Chief.- 

Jules sighed. -We thought some of us should go to the victims' department central, and the rest to interview the last victim's family.- 

-We go to the family.- Shawn declared -we're good-looking and friendly, families love us. Just like puppies.- Gus nodded knowingly. -And we could use an home-made orange juice.- 

Adam arched an eyebrow. -They sort of remind me of Looney Tunes.- 

-No- Henry growled – Looney Tunes are way less dumb.- 

Juliet smiled absently, too busy in batting her eyelashes like a 40s' actress. 

-Mr. Browsby, maybe you should come with us, so you could give a professional assessment at the central.- 

-That's fine to me, Detective O'Hara.- He turned to his friend. -And so you can fill me with your survival techniques with Carl.- 

“Carl” delivered him a very unconvincing punch, and they let the goofy laugh you shared only with who saw you full of pimples. 

Adam reacted, catching him by the waist in a tickle assault, Lassie squirming and sniggering in his hold. 

-Err.- Vick's scowl resembled closely a mom's one. -Gentlemen, please. Mr.Browsby, you have a very bad influence on my Head Detective.- 

-But if I remember well it wasn't _me_ insisting upon sneaking in the teacher lounge during last year.- 

-For the last time, I've found incongruities in Mr. Jeckin's program, and I just want to ascertain the situation.- 

-He was the _carpentry_ teacher, Carl.- 

Jules chuckled, Gus fumed, and Shawn once again lost half Vick's talk. 

-...So you can go. Is it okay, Mr. Spencer?- 

Uh-uh, so discharge. _Breath and smile, Shawn_. -Brilliant, Chief. Come on, let's catch the bad guys.- 

-Inappropriate but correct. Thanks for the attention, you can go.- 

Everyone got up, muttering a good-bye and heading to the door. Juliet brushed Shawn's shoulder without much homicidal scowling, so there was probably leeway to recover. It would be nice to have the gang together again so soon; it would be nice as well to have a certain detective yelling at him and then giving him a coffee-soaked kiss. 

He plunged his hands in the pockets, mumbling. He was not good at making up: shake it all and hope it would fall in place, that was his politics. But another one of Shawn's politics was never shutting down a gut feeling or a sign, and the sour gulp in his throat was definitively a sign. 

He would push things a little, just to check. Just to be sure all would be alright. 

-Shawn, I'll go get the victim's address.- Gus announced. -And maybe a mini tart from the vending machine. You come?- 

The psychic looked up as Lassie marched through the hall. -Give me one sec.- 

His best friend just nodded: after a good twenty years of shared life you didn't know all about the other, but learned to feel the signals, like your homeland weather. -Okay, I get it. Don't get killed, and don't kill him, Juliet would skin me.- 

Shawn nodded a “uh-uh”, Gus turned. 

-Gus.- 

-Yes?- 

-Don't leave me all those lousy raspberry tarts.- 

His best friend let a non-compromising moaning, strolling toward the precinct counter. 

Shawn sighed and started across the hall. Target, Detective Lassifrass. Mission, any verbal reaction. Risks, not verbal reactions and need for emergency escape. 

_Don't sing Mission Impossible theme, Shawn._

The target was right in front of him, ranting to a rookie with no-nonsensical voice. The psychic creeped at his back, a grin on his lips. 

As soon as the newbie bolted away Shawn jumped ahead, hands sliding over Lassie's biceps. -Okay, Lassie- he whispered in his ear. -You've just won the Best Pout Award for this year, as if there were any doubts.- 

As soon as the body under his hold became stiff as wood, Shawn knew this hadn't been a good idea. Usually the lightest touch worked as some sort of switch, turning the stern Head Detective in a warm heap of needing arms and fluttering-heart pressed against his skin; that this was not happening, it was, well, _weird._ The sour gulp pulsed behind the tongue. 

-Get your hands off me, Spencer.- he hissed, and Shawn inexplicably found himself jump backward. His Gus-conscience screamed danger; he shrugged it off, and tried another strategy. His fingers tip-toed on the man's back. -Come on, Lassie-face...- 

-Don't _touch_ me.- The detective spun around, flinching under his touch as if it was acid. He was staring at him, jaw clenched and eyes raw and bluer than ever, _no more cop face, no impassible mask_. Shawn had always wondered how he managed to do it, to look so strong and so breakable at the same time. It was what made him such a good leader: the fact that you wanted to be strong like him and _for him_ at the same time. -Did you get it?- 

The psychic frowned; he was getting annoyed, and he got annoyed when he couldn't fully grasp a situation and, well, when the people of his life swerved from their orbits. Both was just unfair. 

-Listen, Lassie, I get it, okay? You're angry and pissed all that jazz, and I admit we both let things go a little crazy yesterday night, but hey, it's not that tragic.- He knew he should shut up, but his tongue had other programs. -I mean, we're both grown men, right?- 

Carlton's whole figure tensed, gaze burning with cold star fire. _Crap._

-How do you dare saying _it_ to _me_ , you cereal-eating mop-haired jackass?- 

He must be truly upset. He was that bad at insults only when upset. - Okay, I expressed that poorly, but you really need to calm down, Lassie-pants. I mean, we're both here, we have a case, let's not fuss over the details.- 

-How can you not grasp...- he gulped, took a deep breath, clearly reaching out for his fortress. And closing the door and putting on at least twenty locks. 

_Clung_ . 

-No, I suppose it's my fault. Even if I don't know how that's possible, I must have overestimate you; but don't worry, this unpleasant accident would not happen again.- He brushed past him. -Now excuse me, I have work to do.- 

And with this the detective was gone, leaving a less than amused Shawn rooted on his feet. 

Clues: He _excused_ himself from him, and that never happened. 

His voice had sounded not Lassie-like at all; it had been the real-person Lassie voice, and that came only with big wounds and big happinesses. 

Third, his words had a sorry aftertaste. 

_That will not happen again._

Conclusion: fixing things wouldn't be that easy. 

-Ehy- Gus's hand bumped him. 

-Ehy.- he answered numbly. 

-I get things didn't go particularly well?- 

-He didn't stab me with a pen, so it can't be that bad _. -Right?_

-Here- his best friend threw him a choco-tart, starting to guide him to the precinct doors. -Listen, if you need to talk about it, I'm here.- 

Shawn turned around the gaudy snack in his fingers. What he should say was, _Gus, you remember that time when I borrowed the Batman doll from Chucky McNoon and accidentally smashed it and he got so sad he told me we won't ever play together again? Well, right now I feel exactly like that._ But saying it would mean make it more awkward and more real, so he simply observed: 

-Gus, this tart is nibbled. How gross.- 

-Aah, don't obsess over details. Come on, talk.- 

The psychic cast a last glare to the chocolate prints around his friend's lips. Yeah, arguing about a mini-tart felt way more comfortable. -Don't worry about that, buddy. He was mad, I made him even more mad and it ended with him choosing if murder my handsome self or storm out in all his Lassie-gloom. Just a normal day, really.- 

-Mmm- Gus made his skeptical face. -You certain- well, you _probably_ know better, Shawn, but are you sure? I mean, back in the chief's office he was so, I don't know, cold.- 

-C'mon, Gus, don't be a failed chocolate manufacturer. He just needs to cool down, catch a bunch of bad guys and he'll be the grumpy jolly fellow we all know.- 

-Damn Shawn, can't you see it? He's hurt, I've a certain experience in the field. I thought you truly cares for him.- 

Shawn suddenly looked up, startled not by his words, but by his tone. Gus was _truly_ wondering if he cared. God, was he _so_ sociopath? He went for a true-love passionate rant. 

-Of course I truly care for him, Gus, I...- and as always, the rant misfired somewhere among the ribs. _Change subject._ -...On the other hand, did you already say Jules?- 

\- I don't know what you're talking about.- 

Seeing Gus squirming wasn't satisfying as ever, but it was a start. -Gus, back in the office you practically sputtered flames every time Mr. Blondie got near Juliet.- 

-I was thrilled by the case.- 

_Skreeek. Nails on the glass._ -Ehy, I'm Shawn, the shamelessly gorgeous guy who pokes in for a living: do you really think I didn't get all the lovey-dovey glances you cast her past weeks? It's a miracle she didn't get stuck in a puddle of caramel.- 

His friend launched in a session of Incoherent Resented Babbling, Shawn patiently waiting and casting peeks to the precinct. Not that he was looking for anyone, eh. 

-Seriously, pal, when are you planning to ask her out?- 

His best friend sighed. -Surely after she quit plotting terrible revenges against us.- 

-That's smart, buddy.- The psychic patted him. Despite the appearance, he didn't know who of them was worse at emotional talking. 

They stayed in silence, walking past the counter and to the Blueberry. Because what do two sociopaths with romantic issues? Chase a killer, of course. 

_God bless best friends_ . 

Juliet O'Hara was rummaging through her desk's files, not really seeing them and keeping fall in the same thought patterns. The most common was _remembering Carlton's eyes that morning Shawn had been such a jerk I should shoot him with a teaser no I mustn't fight Lassiter's battles he' a grown man the hell with it he need to know I'm there thankfully now there is Adam he cheered him up oh God how hot was that man_ , and everything again. All the while setting up a good interrogation strategy. 

_Female multi-tasking at its best_ , Shawn would said, and she _dared_ her inconscio to speak again like him. 

A pat on her shoulder. -O'Hara.- 

She turned around, head tilted on the side, and raised an eyebrow. 

Her partner was standing in front of her, rolling on his heels in a nonchalant pose that screamed Troubling from miles away. He kept switching from stern to grinning, as if he was not sure if feeling excited was a proper procedure. -Yes, Carlton?- 

-O'Hara, I need to tell you something.- 

-Sure, partner- she answered, getting up and checking her gun holster. -As soon as we came back from the Administrative PD I'm all yours.- 

-No, O'Hara, I mean _now_.- 

She rose also the other eyebrow, considering his face again. He was wary, but hey, he was chronically wary when without a gun in hand; only that this was not an annoyance-induced wariness. Excitement? Panic? 

You could say many things about Carlton Lassiter, but if something panicked him, it would be _bad_. 

-Okay- she nodded, slowly. 

-Good- A blur of muscle and starched fabric, that she later elaborated as his arm, grasped and practically dragged her toward one of the interrogation room. They were there, door locked and silence thick, before she could even protest. Carlton leaned on the door. 

She spread her hands, now plainly puzzled. -Well?- 

He squirmed, looking pointedly at his black English shoes; his chest was rising and falling so fast she feared he would hyperventilate. During the last five minutes he had crossed a dozen of states of mind: having so many emotions stuffed in and stuff them deeper and deeper like old socks wasn't healthy, and she wouldn't ever stop telling him so. 

She crossed her arms. - _Well?_ \- 

He sighed, muttering something like “Man up and go”. And carefully avoided her gaze. -Well, it's that...I and Adam aren't exactly friends.- 

She frowned. -Oh, okay.- It was unexpected, but not so perturbing. 

-So you were classmates?- 

Roll on the heels. -Not exactly.- 

- _School_ mates?- 

- _Not exactly_.- 

-Club buddies?- 

-No!- he blurted out, eyes annoyed either by her dullness or her Shawn-like expression. 

-Okay, I'm officially confused, I got the idea you were pretty close.- She didn't buy him acting all buddy with a mere acquaintance. For God's sake, he was _Lassiter_. 

-That's not the point, O'Hara!- He let out a strange sound, like a whine muttered through gritted teeth. -The fact is that we...- he breathed. - wekindofhadathing.- 

Juliet blinked. -You had a thing? _That_ kind of thing?- 

-Well, yes, that kind of thing- a deep shade of red was growing over his collar. -I know it's unbelievable, but...- 

Suddenly a jab in the solar plexus, _hard, not playful at all_ , took his breath away. His partner was scowling, disbelief and scandal in her eyes, trying to decide for what she should kill him first. 

-You told me Shawn was your first experience _with a guy_!- 

He squirmed again. -Well, that wasn't _completely_ untrue. Adam and I never...we just...Listen, it was all very confusing, we were seventeen, I was having an hard time and...- His eyes got clearer and darker, like back in the chief's office. -...And he was there, and endured all my crap, and was the first in a long time that said me I could really do something.- He searched for the right words. - He helped him to understand what I could _be_.- 

Juliet staring at him, blankly. How are you supposed to metabolize something like that? She had always been sure Shawn had been a total revolution in her partner's life; well, he probably had _really_ been it, but not for being a guy. Actually, back when the not-wanted touches and not-shared looked between them had become obvious, Carlton had seemed more concerned with the who than the what. Then again, she realized, knowing him and his _eccentric_ way to see relationships, he could actually be one of those few people who fall in love considering other things, _like criminal record and blood type and genealogical tree_ , before gender; or he fell in it before even knowing what hit him. 

Anyway by the way they acted around each other, with no embarrassment, no sourness, the thing with Adam shouldn't have been a painful love story: she was pretty sure it was back in these years that Carlton's mother met Althea, and probably Adam's relationship had been a good way to cope with it and enjoy life; a counter-melody to a difficult relationship. 

Maybe, she pondered, his company could be it again, at least while things with that asshole of Shawn cooled down. 

Yeah, sounded like a plan. 

Juliet elaborated it all in less than five seconds, _God bless Multitasking_. And so, with eyes full of affection, she gave her beloved detective an even harder blow in the sternum. 

_We'll look after you, partner._

-Ouch! What was that for?- 

-Because _I_ wanted to ask him out!- 


	3. Care to Explain?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigation in Psych-style. Awkward gossip about Lassie's teenage years. Shawn still stuffs everything down.

**Care to Explain?**

**-In which investigations start, the guys get stuck in a debatable scene and Adam wrecks Carlton's credibility-**

The victim's house was a tiny cottage in the first outskirts of Santa Barbara. Peachy walls, fluffy curtains over the gnatcatchers, a well-kept garden with bunches of flowers under the windows. The entire neighborhood was screaming repubblican middle-class, from the tidy USA flags fluttering from every door to the herd of housewives chatting and gleaming of Tiffany's jewels. Some battered bycicles near the fence and a rubber pipe made the house look tidy, but not in a creepy psycho way. 

The whole place was a Eighties' soap opera made house, but that was hardly a crime. 

-Man, this is going to be _so boring_.- Shawn sank in the Blueberry seat. -I should have known it, people with boring jobs equal boring homes. It's science.- 

Gus threw him the poor remains of his Jelly Beans, licking the sugar from his fingers. -Just because your dream house is a sort of comfy Big Bang it doesn't mean other people are wrong, Shawn.- 

He rolled his eyes. The fact was, he never really had a home of his own: his flat was just a place where you sleep and can fill the couch with crumbs without being scolded by someone. He thought about a place where house meant also endless fresh coffee and cuddles on the couch and a lean body pressed on his, but that was _not_ the moment. 

-I've heard it both ways. But this place will surely win the Dullest Street Award.- 

During the ten minutes they spent doing their pre-interrogation snack, the emotional cliffhanger had been the mailman's arrival. 

-Okay, let's go talk with the guy. Maybe that would be a little more entertaining.- 

They got out of the car, down across the street. -You know that this is an _investigation_ , right?- 

-Exactly, and investigations are the best entairtment ever. That and Angry Birds, obvious.- The psychic shrugged, swiftly tucking the candy bag in his friend's pocket. 

Before he could begin to mourn his now sticky pants Shawn had rung the cottage bell, and a shuffle of slippers floated from behind the door. When it cracked open, Gus's whining stopped, and Shawn's grin froze a little. 

In front of them was a man: auburn hair, nice feautures, he should be in his late thirties, but the long-lashed green eyes gave his face the startled freshness of boys and lab pups. Both the shaggy Oasis T-shirt and the puffy state of his eyes screamed about days of telesales and heartache. 

_Damn, what happened to all Santa Barb's happy psychos?_

-Yes sirs?- 

-Hi, I'm Shawn Spencer.- he opted for his Rather Comforting Smile. -And this is my partner, Mr Willie Robinson, fresh prince of Santa Barbara. Just a question, do you have any part for my dear friend Estevez Estevez...?- 

The jab was immediate, nearly sending him in the bush of roses. -What my extremely inappropriate colleague wanted to ask- Gus stepped in -was if you are Mr. Martin McGoran, sir.- 

The man nodded slowly. -Yes, I-I am. I am.- 

The voice should usually be pleasant, but now it cracked and jolted like a bad tape, and Shawn had the disturbing feeling he wasn't really seeing them. Or he was the best actor in the galaxy, or he was really a wreck. 

-Err, okay. We work with the Santa Barbara Police, and would like to ask you some question if...- _if you weren't going to hang yourself with the rubber pipe, of course_ -...if you can give us some time.- 

The guy blinked slowly, they kept smiling. Silence. 

Just before Gus started blabbing by silence-induced stress, Mr. McGoran came back to Earth. -Oh, yes, sure.- He stepped backward, wearily waving them inside. -Please, come in. Sorry for the mess, but I...I just had had too many things to think about, these days.- 

Both of them slurred one of the trivia people with happy lives istinctively told in these occasions, and slipped in the cottage hall. 

Shawn x-rayed the place. The hall was airy, open to the right in a water-colored living room and narrowing in a corridor in front of them. A pearl-white sofa rested under the window, light flashing on the coffee table and the rug's cream and blue twines. At the other corner of the room a piano, a bookcase filled with Photographic books and a box for toys. If the facade seemed spit out from a Soap set, the interior was a Designer's frenzy. 

Mr. McGoran guided them to the living room, murmuring something about making themselves comfortable. Shawn seated on the couch, deciding to go slow with all the psychic charade. _So he wouldn't think I'm an asshole, for a change._

-You miss her a lot, right?- he asked quietly. 

The man looked up, wincing like he had just been slapped. -Why, why are you asking?- 

The truth was, because of the socks; a lonely grey sock peering from the armchair like a frightened pet. And because of the half-full tea bottle on the table, the girl magazine opened at the page where _she_ had let it; because of all the tiny details quivering under the surface and screaming her name again and again. But Shawn just fluttered his fingers, and started the show. 

-Oh, the spirits are giving me very strong vibrations. As they told me that this sofa is more expensive than my whole flat.- 

The guy didn't look the least amused. -Sorry for being so blunt, Mr.Spencer, but what exactly do you want to know?- 

Shawn leaned on the couch, uselessly trying to make himself comfortable. 

-Well, I suppose you have already told everything to the police, but we, err, kind of have a different approach to investigation; just tell us something about you and your wife, and we would do the rest. Have you known her for a long time?- 

-Oh, nothing so exciting about that, I suppose. Just the average story of the average preppy who met the gorgeous girl at the college party, asked her Sociology notes for five weeks and finally managed to ask her a date.- He gave a shaking smile. - Rebecca was three years older, but she was...Gosh, she was _stunning_. And not just because of her body, but of the way she walked, and laughed, and _fought_. You should have seen her when I lost my job, some years ago; Justin was still a baby and Caroline was arriving, but Rebecca didn't ever flinch. She just patted me, decided she would do some double-shifts and after a bunch of days she and her team caught a very big fish. I still don't know how she managed to close such a big case, with the pregnancy and all.- 

Shawn frowned, finally feeling interested. The guy had the smooth, mannered talk of very sensitive or very calculating persons. A judge? No, too young. Maybe a lawyer? -What about Rebecca's team? You knew some of them?- 

-The guys? Oh, sure. John in particular, John Jonhanson, was a very good friend.- 

Gus stepped in. -Oh, so they didn't just work together? The police said they were colleagues.- 

-Well, that's true, but it's not all. You know, Becca and John have been partners for ages, in the other PD. We met at every Police Department Picnics, and we often went out with him and his wife. He and Carol babysitted the kids more than once.- He rubbed his face, wearily. 

So the two victims were all buddy-buddy. Good point. When he asked the next question, Shawn felt exactly like kicking a seal pup. -I suppose John's, ehm, _departure_ have been a tough blow.- _See, Gus-conscience? Gentle like a butterfly._

-A tough blow?- Martin laughed, a cracking thing you would see better on an old man. -When we got the news she was devastated. She closed herself in our room, and didn't go out for the whole day. She returned to work, sure, but Becca wasn't herself in...in that last week.- 

Shawn shared a look with his best friend. A love triangle? It seemed balls-up, and then he hated that sort of things. Too banal. -She acted strangely? Did something uncommon?- 

-Yes, sort of. She was distraught, sure, but also...I don't know, simply off. She kept doing everything, but wasn't _really there_. Like something was consuming her. I told her to cool down, I even got a little pissed. The next day they called me because she was dead.- 

And then Mr. McGoran let out one of those strangled sounds people made when something snapped within them, and you couldn't do a thing about it. _Damn._

-Uhm, let's talk about Becca.- Shawn offered, trying to push back an emotional breakdown. -She loved her job, I can sense it.- 

Martin breathed in, stuffing everything at the pitch of the stomach like every good repressed adult. -Well, that's sure. She practically lived for her job when we got married: she loved patrolling and leading investigations, feeling as she was really doing something. And I was happy for her, even if most times I was also scared to hell. You can't understand if you've never dated a cop.- 

-I can imagine.- Shawn said mechanically. 

-Anyhow, she got pretty pissed when they transferred her and John to the financial. She had just had a bad accident and her knee wasn't working so it was the only way to keep her job, but it wasn't the Homicide. John decided to follow her to have a safer job. He had been a great help to cheer her up.- He twisted the shirt's ehm, jaw clutched so tight it trembled. The anger was pumping around him like a radiation. -We were supposed to go camping in August, with the children and John's glider. And now some goddamn maniac had killed them. We were supposed to _go camping_.- 

And the inevitable happened. He burst into tears, knees spread and hands digging in brown curls. Shawn's Drama alarm began screaming. 

_Leave the ship, leave the ship_ . 

-Ah, thank you, Mr. McGoran.- He got up before knowing it, shrinking back like a crab. -...I think I'll let you in the loving hands of my partner, while I...- _think fast, Shawn_ -...I give a look around. To check things, feel...psychic stuff.- 

Gus sharply looked up to him, the mouth a perfect “O” of dismay. 

-Shawn, I- 

But then he was wrapped in an armful of sobbing widower, arms squeezing him like an octopus. Shawn took another step backward. 

-Good, let it out, Martin. Let it out. My friend is the Super Listener of Santa Barbara, you know?- 

He was out the room at the next fall of whines. 

He strolled along the corridor, snooping around. A photo of two kids in front of a ship, some children drawings fastened with adhesive tape, one of those mountain e/o sea paintings middle-class people believed essential. 

_Mmm, where do you look for clues in the Perfect Family house?_

A pale-blue door with a cheery dog painted over it, and Shawn's mind clicked. 

_In the children room, of course._

He cracked it open, listening carefully to any suspicious noise. Nothing. Increasing laments from the living room. Gus would be a puddle of tears before twenty seconds. 

The children room seemed, well, a children room: so very messy very colorful and smelling of not so new snacks. Judging by the crib in the corner and the plastic dinosaurs in the other, one of the kids should be four, five years and the other less than two. 

_And they have a widowed dad and a dandy stranger in the room. Poor guys._

He knelt down, near the toys box, and lifted the cover: it wouldn't be the first time he found compromising things stuffed among Mr. Potatoes and Barbie dolls. Kind of obscene, but sly: cops too, after all, have some problems in shaking a kid's world. 

-C'mon, hot stuff, come to daddy...- He digged deeper, tongue clutched between teeth. Dolls, spicky monsters, a mouse mask, other monsters. After five minutes, the most thrilling thing he had found was the blob sticked to his fingers. 

-Jeez- he muttered -I didn't know they still make those things.- 

He scanned the room once again; it was then that he noted the console under the window. It was nested in a wooden shelf, just under a little TV monitor; the entire set was behind the big child bed, so he couldn't see it before. A tidy pile of video games waited on its side. Man, that was the Champion Edition of Nintendo console: he had tried to persuade Gus to order it for months, but with no results. He suddenly remembered other evenings, a Wii console in a dim-lighted living room, shining blue eyes as he got massacrated and tried to steal kisses. _No, Shawn, quit it now._ Now. 

He decided to give it a closer look, and maybe take a photo or two for Gus, when he heard the sound he feared from the first step in the room. A voice. 

A _child_ voice. 

-Are you a thief?- 

Shawn cursed inwardly. Turned with a big charming smile. -What do you say, lil' boy?- 

The kid in front of him was a mess of dungarees and page-cut black hair, and was pouting with all his strenght. 

-You sneaked in the room and move all tip-tippy, so you should be a thief. Like Lupin.- 

Shawn frowned. -Ah, no lil'one, I'm not a thief. And especially not like Lupin.- 

-So you are a killer?- 

-Nope.- 

-A kidnapper?- 

-Neither.- 

-A maniac?- 

-What?- Shawn's eyebrows shot to his forehead. -What, you're- you're _not supposed_ to know what a maniac is!- 

The kid crossed his arms, giving him a glance that could be described only as disappointed. -So you're the Boogey Man. I thought you dressed better.- 

Shawn was grateful no one of his friends heard that. 

-Listen, kid, I know it's all pretty strange.- He took a step forward, arms stretched, smile forgotten. -But now I need you to do a _thing_ for me...- 

The child's blue eyes went the size of tea-spoons, and Shawn realized what he had just said. 

_Oh Crap._

_-Daddy!-_ the boy's shrill probably made him lose a eardrum. 

-The Boogey Man is a _maniac_!- 

-Shhh!- the psychic bent forward, waved wildly. -No no no, boy, there's no need to call Daddy, right? Let's just calm down and talk about it, right?- 

If possible, the kid started to cry _harder._

Now, when Gus questioned him later with the comfort of the Blueberry and a smoothie, Shawn _knew_ that grabbing a freaked child isn't the best way to make him stop screaming, especially when you're a stranger and halfway to maniac; but right in that moment, it honestly seemed the only _logical thing_ to do. So he jumped on the kid, trying to pull one hand on his mouth, the kid bitted him, he cried, lost his balance, bumped against the goddamn box and the kid hovered on him like a little screaming demon. 

So this is why when Mr. McGoran and a very red-eyed Gus bursted through the door, they found Shawn flat on his back, with the boy sitting over his stomach and a toy telephone ready to crash on his head. 

-Oh, ehy guys.- he cracked. -I swear there is a perfectly justifiable explanation.- 

His best friend sighed. -The worst thing is that I'm not even _surprised_.- 

By the end of the day Juliet O'Hara found herself with a blocknotes full of unicorn sketches, no mayor leads for the case and a mood greatly restored. 

She collapsed against the car door, laughing wildly and hoping not to flush coffee from her nose over her new shirt. 

-Wait, wait- she gasped, trying to catch her breath. -you can't be serious.- 

-I am, Detective O'Hara, sadly I am. I've been witness with these very eyes.- 

Juliet cast a glance to her partner, then to the blond man grinning in the rear-view mirror. This moment would become history. 

-Carlton had a _Dark fase_?- 

He was clutching the wheel so tight it creaked. -No no no, this is misinformation.- 

-Carl, you spent a trimester going around with black velvet jackets and enough mascara to fill Jupiter.- 

-It was _kajal_ , thank you very much. And it was the season of all those mayhems with the Romantic Poetry Club. I was just trying to mingle with them to investigate.- 

-Oh, so I had to endure those endless session of David Bowie and Emily Dickinson's poems for justice? I can still hear it: “ A bird came down the walk, He did not know I saw...”- Adam recited, one arm thrown up to the ceiling and eyelids batting in a over-dramatic way. 

-So it was _you_ who found the quote for my birthday present!- 

Carlton sank deeper in the seat, adjusting his sunglasses and pretending his face wasn't turning crimson. -I won't say anything else.- 

-What? Why?- 

-So you two couldn't use it against _me_.- 

-Oh, c'mon, Carl- Adam gave him a grin. -I haven't say anything about the tato...-. 

Suddenly the road twisted and Lassiter turned on the right, sending them both to smash against the door. Deliberately. 

-Oh, _so_ sorry. I wasn't concentrato enough.- 

-You never play along, Carl.- 

The car stopped. 

-Here we are, O'Hara, your home. We'll wait you outside.- 

Carlton got out of the car, blatantly ignoring Juliet's scowl. She heard a rustle of fabric behind her, and Adam's voice echoed next to her face. 

-The Creepy Neighbor smile is new.- 

-Yeah, it comes with having a big car and a bigger title on his badge.- 

She exited too, assuring her partner that _yes_ , she would be back in no time and _no,_ even a woman could change herself in less than four hours. Adam was fairly sure to have seen her stocking out her tongue. 

He repressed a snort, and got out of the car. 

-You two act exactly like playground pals.- He said to his friend, leaning against the door. -Or an old married couple, of course.- 

Carlton's shoulders jolted under the jacket. -Married couple? With O'Hara? Oh Gosh, no, it would be...I mean, no.- 

He turned to him, Chips-like sunglasses sliding in place. The sunglasses were new, and gave him an hard-boiled, inpersonal look. Probably the desired effect. 

-Well, I was just asking. She's smart, beautiful, handles you pretty well. It was imaginable.- 

-Mmm, yeah, I suppose so. It's only that I find hard even thinking of her as a woman. _Don't give me that look_ , I know what she is, but it, it just doesn't come as fundamental. Even if she wears those absurd fourty-inches shoes during stakeouts.- 

His friend sighed. -At least she doesn't let you going around dressed as postal clerk.- 

Carlton winced, like Adam had just brushed a bad-healed scar. He rubbed his eyes, the sunglasses bumping up and down. 

-Is it so evident that I still don't understand fashion?- 

-Only this century's one, Carl.- 

Adam dodged the expected kick, but still made him giggle. They leaned again against the Ford Fusion. 

-I'm sorry for your wife.- 

-Why...?- 

-You always talked about having a family.-Adam answered. -And Google could do incredible magics if you know what to look for. What happened?- 

Carlton didn't punch him, neither yell about _taking care of your blasted business_ , so it should still hurt. Still playing with the twelve-years-old he kept somewhere under his skin. 

He breathed in. 

-She was perfect, really. Beautiful, wealthy family, good job. And I...I really want it to work. I was _sure_ it works. I was wrong.- 

-And now?- 

He jumped, utterly scandalized. -Oh, Adam, I'm not sure if I should talk with you about it...if it is, uhm, _proper_.- 

-More embarassing than the Dark thing story?- Adam teased. 

Carlton sighed, slumping his remarkable height acroos the car door. -I don't know.- 

-You don't know if it would be worse?- 

-No, I don't know if I've something to say.-He run a hand across his hair. -It's all...very confusing. Very trippy. Always been.- 

Adam rolled his eyes. _Got it. Another happy outcast_.-They too are not too...- _a tactful way, Browsby_ -...socially skilled?- 

Carlton nodded with passion, jaw tightening so much Adam could actually _see_ the anger galloping around him.-Yeah, but it's not the problem, it's that they, he...they- he gesticulated. - they're so _burrito_.- 

_Okay. That was unexpected._ -Burrito? Wait, is it some sort of secret Cop code?- 

But Carlton was gone. -Ah, maybe it's just me. I just can't time this kind of things. I'm like a chowder. First you can't touch it because it's boiling and then it becomes sticky and cold and you pick it up and shut in the freezer not to see it ever again.- 

-What's with all these food metaphors?- 

Carlton slashed a finger to him. -Don't pretend not to know. You too are a burrito.- 

-I have to feel _outraged_?- 

-Oh, quit it.- His friend completely ignored his irony, and just got even paler than usual. He talked soberly, in a serious boy-way that punched Adam right in the stomach. -I try everything, all is well, and when I bite all gets screwed-up.- 

_The summer, the last days of school. College booklets sprawled on the bed._

Silence fell; no one of them looked at the other. Still, Adam slipped closer. 

-We were boys, Carlton.- 

-I had been pretty clear.- 

-Oh, you know what I mean. It was too soon, you were too serious, and...- 

Carlton held up a hand, giving a little smile. And those damned sunglassed hid everything. 

-No, no, I got it. I'm just not good as main course. It's why you didn't come that day, after all.- 

He looked down, seconds passed. And then Adam reached out, slowly pulling out Carlton's glasses, freeing his eyes like they were a treasure. His voice was little more than a breath. 

-I never said I didn't come.- 

Time stilled, Carlton stopped breathing. _He had really come_. 

How close they were. How natural it felt. He licked his lips. 

And there came McNab's voice. 

-To all units, body found in Shirlen Wood, possible murder victim, no suspects seen. To all units..- 

He blinked, hard. Brain screaming nonsense. 

_The radio. Case. Murder. Move your ass._

The clarity switch snapped in Carlton's head, and he launched himself acroos the car window before Adam could get any nearer. 

-Central, this is Lassiter and O'Hara, roger. We fly.- 

_Yes, a murder. Simple, handable murder. God saves the murders._

Adam watched his pensive, shy Carlton turning wildly, snapping the sunglasses from his hands with enough strenght to knock him down. 

-O'Hara get out!- He yelled, marching over her lovely lawn. -The lead is _boiling_.- 

Juliet dashed through the door, trying to put on the last earring while still wearing an intelligent expression. -What?- 

-Corpse, here, now. _Fresh_.- 

_Fresh?_

The blonde detective let a cheerlader yelp. -Well, what are we waiting for?- 

Next thing Adam knew, they had flied to the car with the biggest grins ever seen on an adult and giggling madly. Something about the right twist for a dull day. 

He had nothing to do but run after them. 

-So you guys _don't_ have a regular psychologist?- 

-I still don't understand how a kid can have so much strenght, Gus.- 

-And I still don't understand how his father let us go without a charge, _Shawn_.- 

They mounted on the Blueberry, Shawn pressing the pack of ice to the back of his head and Gus watching him with utter grudge. The usual. 

-C'mon, buddy. Justin and I had a little misunderstanding, that's all. It's not like we did a human sacrifice in the courtyard.- 

-I'm not sure Juliet would be so persuaded.- 

-You're saying Juliet would better do human sacrifices than playing with a kid?- 

-What...?- 

He giggled mischievously. Gus snorted. The Echo buzzed. 

-Are you okay with all this story, dude?- 

Shawn turned sharply. His friend was looking at him, nicely and implacably. 

_Oh oh._ -What are you talking about, man?- 

-Well, the story about the two dead guys. I mean, cops, great friends, great sense of duty. It hits a little too close to home, for me.- 

Shawn remembered the shiver as he heard how they both died, the question flashing in his head, _which first?, which first?_

_-_ Uh, actually it didn't remind me anything _.-_ he lied. 

-Shawn...- 

Shawn's phone began to ring a millisecond before Gus's rant. Grinning weakly, he picked it up and checked the ringtone. “Wannabe,”, so Jules. _Yeah, because they're pissed and alive and running around. Quit the drama, Spencer._

His grin came back. 

-Ehy Jules.- He greeted. -Gus was wondering what do ya think about human sacrifices in kids' education.- 

-I don't want to even _begin_ to understand it.- After so many years, she didn't have the slightest hesitation. -There is another corpse. Same conditions of the others, found on the edge of the wood beach. And beside it was a letter.- 

Shawn bitted his lip, gazing at Gus with his Serious Talk face. -Mmm, and I bet it isn't a love letter.- 

-How acute, Shawn. Get here, we are on the boardwalk.- 

_Mmm. Still not in the mood for my hilarious jokes, got it._

-Okay, wait for us.- 

And as everything went as usual, the unusual popped out. The lack of something, better. He played with the passenger's window. -Jules?- 

-Yeah?- 

He knew what he should say. What he wanted to say from that morning. 

_Tell him I'm a jerk. Tell him I'm sorry._

He opened his mouth, the seconds ticked. And the words got stuck somewhere behind the tongue. 

-We stop for the goobers.- 


	4. Oh Walhallalla!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary so far: Lassie has offered Shawn to live together, and he has managed to transform it in a bloodbath. Carlton sulks. Shawn temporizes. Furthermore, the Psych gang is facing a gruesome serial killer that kills mostly cops and leaves flourish letters on his crime scenes. A charming profiler comes to help, and guess what, he’s no one else but Lassie’s high school best friend. And not just best friend.

**Oh Valhallalla!**

**-In which Lassie has a great idea, Shawn dresses as a Viking and Gus loses his pants-**

The body was clean, neatly wrapped in twine cords. It had no shirt and no pants on, but the limbs had been collected in a matting like a sort of pea pod, hands entwined on the chest and cleared of any ring. The mortal wounds were nowhere in sight. The young male face, _black-haired, forty-something_ , was too newly-shaven to have happened later than half-a day before. 

It all rang wrong. It implied the murderer had killed the victim with the least amount of bruises possible, composed him with extra care, and shaved and cleaned a corpse. Murder shouldn’t look cleaner than life. 

Shawn leaned back and propped his fists against hips. 

-Well, Gus, this is rather burlesque.- 

-It's said _grotesque_ , Shawn.- 

-I heard it both ways.- 

Gus sighed, inching away from the corpse. They’d all gathered on the nearest side of Northern Creek, down the pine-wooden dwelling stretched by the freeway. A sweet dusk was setting on the hills around; the air smelled a strange mix of resin and gasoline. PD's rookies roamed around the clearing with cameras and greenish faces, while Lassie and Jules happily ordered them around. The two of them were waiting to be acknowledged along with Adam. 

It felt a bit of kindergarten treatment, but anyway. 

-I agree with Shawn on this.- 

Adam stepped in, crossing his arms. Shawn fought the urge to stuck his tongue out to Gus. 

-Mr. Browsby, good to see ya. Survived the afternoon with cops?- 

-Oh. Oh yeah, I think so.- 

Adam grinned, but before Shawn could inquire further Juliet nodded to them to step in. The whole camp got stiller. 

Lassie knelt beside the body, putting on his black rubber gloves, and Shawn stifled a moan. Lassie's hands were not sexy. At all. The black rubber didn't stretch over knuckles as they shifted, didn't outline slender, nimble fingers. Nah. Sure not. Nope. What was Jules saying? 

-...so we're almost sure the victim’s another cop. Sam Lopez, senior officer of traffic wardens. He went missing two days ago, the family report came only today. We just got identification from the PD.- 

-Mh. Another cop. And the procedures too are very alike. It really looks like a pattern. Vengeance maybe?- 

Adam arched an eyebrow, Lassie grumbled in agreement. There was a Dick Wolf feeling somewhere there. 

-I don't think so.- 

-How this, Shawn?- 

-It's too clean. Here there's no emotion, no real care. It's well-done but freezing. It's...- He glared at Gus. -... _grotesque_.- 

Juliet tilted her head. Her partner kept looking silently at the victim. -So what is your conclusion?- 

-That we have a very cracked guy that is trying to tell us something. I'm still working on the something.- 

-So are we.- Adam sighed. -And this aesthetic, is just puzzling. He prepared the bodies, so the matting is not for hiding them. It could be some sort of artistic attempt.- 

-But, it’s _ugly_.- Gus commented sheepishly. 

-Exactly, Mr. Guster. And this is what puzzles me.- 

It was then that Lassie let out a yelp. 

-Oh. Oh.- He gasped. - _Oh_.- 

They all turned to him. He was still crouched by the body, but now had his hands clutching his head, rocking back and forth over the corpse. They looked at each other with a hint of panic. Lassie however went on, too excited to note. 

-Oh sure. It's so obvious. It's a ship. It's a _ship_.- 

Shawn gave a sigh. -Perfect. He snapped. I knew it would happen.- 

- _Shut up you_. It’s so obvious. The coat, the cords, it's meant to be the shape of a ship.- The Head Detective grinned. -It's like a ritual. It's a Viking funeral.- 

Adam’s blondeness suddenly lighted up. -Oh, sure!- 

-Wait, _Vikings_?- 

-Vikings?- Juliet swirled to her partner. -Carlton?- 

-Yes, Viking rituals, O’Hara.- Lassie jumped on his feet. –And the letter talking about …- 

-Sure! “Tearing off their own eyes.” _Odin_!-Adam breathed a laugh. –Carlton, you’re great!- 

-Wait, wait. I kinda got lost at the nerdy part.- 

Lassie pointed at the wicker, delighted. He even forgot to be giving Shawn the Silence treatment. 

-Vikings used to entomb their remarkable dead in wood-carved ships, that were then either buried or burned across a river. I’ve always wanted to be buried like that.- 

Adam sighed at their risen eyebrows. –Yeah, he _has_.- 

-Anyway, look at the matting, its shape, the tips at the head and the feet of the body. The wrapping of the corpses is not a form of camouflage. It’s a ship. A _Viking ship_.- 

Jules frowned. – So you think the killer has tried, I don’t know, to give the victims a Viking funeral?- 

-Yes, but it’s not only that O’Hara. The letter, all that jazz about the circles of flame and the quest for truth. They are all main connotation of Odin, the Father of Northern Gods. We supposed an historical link, but now it’s fairly clear.- 

Shawn’s eyebrows arched again. –How do you know all this stuff, Lassie?- 

He got fully up, taking off the gloves with a shrug. –Integrative seminary in seventh grade.- 

-Before the Dark phase.- Adam offered to Jules. 

- _Dark pha-?-_

- _Nothing_.- She cleared her throat. –Well, it’s surely weird, even for our standards. But it seems a valuable hypothesis to me. I trust Carlton. I think it’s worth a try.- 

-Sure.- Lassie nodded. –We should wait for the autopsy, though. And someone should go investigating at Santa Barbara Viking Society, of course.- 

-Santa Barbara Viking Society?- Shawn squinted his eyes. –It actually exists something like that?- 

-Sure, Shawn. The seat is just in front of the SB Koala Supporters’ Club.- 

-That doesn’t help your case a bit, Gus.- 

Adam nodded. -It’s a good move. I suppose there aren’t lots of Middle Age enthusiasts around here, it’s highly probable we got some kind of connection. Our man should be very precise, obsessive, cultured too. Someone undercover would be more advisable.- 

The magic word rang in the air. Shawn didn’t even have to watch Gus. 

-We go!- 

-We didn’t doubt it.- 

Lassie actually made it sound like a curse, but it didn’t matter. Shawn was too cheery. Undercover work combined two of his greatest talents, charming people and not giving a damn about what they think. 

-I know it’s a bad idea, but okay, go with it.- Juliet conceded with a huff. –We can’t spare men for that anyway. You think you could manage to get there this evening?- 

-Of course. A stop at the Psych for some arrangements, and we’ll be right there.- 

A grunt rose from the detective’s back behind her. -So why don’t you get lost now?- 

-Carlton!- 

-Pardon. So why don’t you _nicely_ get lost now?- 

She sighed, giving them a shrug. It was the “I can’t do more about it” shrug you give in front of sudden rainstorms and sprained ankles, every inexorable annoyance of the world. Shawn held up a hand and tried a smile. Let’s just hope the rainstorm is not a bitchy one. 

-I think it’s actually a great idea. It looks like you got everything pretty wrapped up here. We’ll fill you tomorrow with the catch.- 

-Okay. Be careful, guys.- 

-Always. Bye bye Jules. Lassie, I.- He stopped. Two seconds, three. 

-Bye, Lassie.- 

-Spencer.- 

Neither of them turned to greet properly the other. Their best friends and good half of the cops stood watching them, Shawn stumbling down the parking slope, Carlton looking pointedly at the same nondescriptive square of mud for the whole time. _Idiots._

Gus’s eyes slipped to her before he could stop it. 

_Idiot me._

-Jules.- 

She turned, shifting to a smile. She put back a lock of hair behind the ear. -Gus.- 

-So. How long do you think it'll go on?- He hinted at his back. 

-The two of them? Or the case?- 

-The most annoying one, so the two of them.- 

-I don’t know, honestly. ‘Think this time they’d have to really talk about it. Carlton was a wreck this morning. I must confess you I’m pretty pissed with Shawn, Gus, and yeah, I’m blatantly taking parts. I hope it wouldn't mess our friendship though.- 

-Sure not.- 

There was a moment of silence. Gus shuffled on his feet, back and forth, back and forth. Maybe that was a good moment. Maybe he should do it now. Maybe. Oh damn. 

-Jules, I, uh, I have something, something to. To say you.- 

-Uh, right. I have something to say too. Something _big_.- She swirled around, seizing him, eyes twinkling. -I'm not sure I should do it, not now, but I just have to...- She licked her lips. -...to say it to a true friend.- 

-Oh.- 

Her hand was on Gus’s arm. A true friend. It was not necessary a bad thing. It could be good. It could be horrible. Her hand, on his arm. 

-Gus?- 

-Ah, ah yeah. You, can count on me, Jules ‘f course. What, what is it?- 

She leant further. Gave a look around. She licked her lips. 

-Carlton and Adam. Time ago, at school. They were _friends_.- 

-Yes, I know it.- 

-No, not friends Gus, friends _friends_.- 

-I still…- 

-Gus.- 

-…Oh. You mean. _Oh_. Oh, damn.- 

-Yep.- 

-I didn’t know…but after all he hugged him. Spontaneously. I’m surprised Shawn didn’t figure it already.- 

-You know how it is. In private life they both had the sharpness of a toaster.- 

Gus looked past her shoulder. Adam was standing in front of Lassiter, talking softly. -You think it’s a bad thing?- 

-What? No.- 

-So why you told me it?- 

-Because I, I’m a girl Gus. I _need_ to gossip. And I know you can listen and still keep your mouth shut enough.- 

-Why, thanks, Jules.- 

-Of course. Now, what was your thing to say?- 

-Oh, my thing. Oh. I. It’s.- _It’s that I’ve died behind you for a year, Jules, that you’re the most incredible, beautiful woman I’ve ever known and that every time I look at you I just want to throw up and burst in flames and put a ring on your finger. That’s it._ -It’s nothing.- 

Shawn’s voice prattled from down the slope. 

-Gus, come here. I need your magic vibes to work. And your car, but mainly the magic vibes.- 

He babbled something, smiled. She slowly took off her hand. For a moment it seemed something was amiss. 

-Gu-us, come here!- 

-Quit it, _Shawn_.- 

Gus cast a glare at his back, and waved goodbye at her. Jules chuckled. She hushed him to go, and Gus scampered down the hill, nearly tripping on a bulging root. He turned. All he saw was her golden hair glowing in the sun. 

* 

Dorothy McGoran knew that the public of an History Public was composed mainly by three categories of people: nerds, nerds gotten famous, and idiots. More than twenty years as secretary at SB Vikings Society had granted her a radar that was almost infallible. So it took her less than five seconds to label the duo smiling widely in front of her desk. 

They were men, of course, thirty-something and looking like kids told to play serious at Christmas. The black one could have fallen in the Nerd category, but the horned helmet and the fur vest took away any doubt. The white one, well, it was almost too obvious. 

She put down her nail file. -How can I help you, sirs?- 

-Hullo, ma’am.- The white one grinned, talking like a bad mix of Santa Claus and a pirate. 

–I’m Erik Rufus Valhallalla the Third, and this is my raid-buddy, Thorki the Slasher.- 

-I see.- Dorothy articulated. 

-We’re her for, uh, the conference. Party. Whatever.- He paused for a moment. –Apple Mead!- 

-I see. You’re actually members of the Society, sirs?- 

-Ah, oh, no, not yet. But we’re fans. Valkyries, heavy metal, all that stuff. We have horns too.- 

-Indeed.- 

-We are here for some, uh, college things. We just had to stop for such a priceless place. I’m sure you could leave us take a peek inside, mh?- He gave her a wink. –History guy to History girl?- 

-Sirs, let me be blunt. This is a old, venerable Cultural Institution which had been built on grounds of decency and temperance. We do not accept puerile shenanigans, and so I ought to ask you to leave.- 

-It’s because my friend is black, right?- 

-It’s because you’re two _idiots_ , sir. And however real Vikings didn’t have horned helmets.- 

-I told you!- the black one hissed. 

-Uh. Can you give us a moment, ma’am? Thanks so much.- The white guy bowed in a rain of silvered plastic and dragged his friend towards the opposite wall, talking in what they believed were quiet whispers. They were not. 

-I _told_ you the horns were too much, Shawn!- 

-Well, I haven’t had a lot of time for costumes. You don’t want to know what I promised to have the wooden shields.- 

-You always overdo.- 

-I thought they were a nice touch. Asterix wears it all the time!- 

-That’s your standard of historical accuracy? Shawn!- 

-Sirs?- 

They turned in sync. Clanging the helmets together. 

-I’m awfully sorry for being even blunter, but I have to ask you to clear the area. We expect Mr. Walinor for a personal conference at eight o’clock.- 

-Who?- 

The desk lady cast them an appalled look, pink-framed glasses shaking on her nose. -The author of “Legal Procedures in Early Vikings Settlements”, of course. A worldwide authority on tribal justice. His has been the most important work on Northern Prehistory presented in the last years.- 

Shawn turned to Gus. 

-Don’t look at me, Shawn. I’m not the History Nerd of the group.- 

There was still plenty of time for more awkward moments, but in that moment the glass doors of the Hall opened behind them. A middle-aged man, _grey suit, short, balding head_ , strolled in, crowded by a flock of people with blocknotes and unhappy faces. The secretary lady shot up with a sudden smile. It was not difficult guessing it was the Viking author. 

She hissed through gritted teeth. -Guys, get the Hell out of here right now.- 

-Sure thing. If we can have a look around before.- 

-You won’t screw this.- 

-I walked across half Santa Barbara with a horned helmet, ma’am. Try me.- 

She watched Shawn with undying hatred. He grinned back. 

-Okay. Be quick.- 

They had slipped across the club door before Mr. Walinor had hit the desk. 

-That was close, Shawn.- Gus grumbled, as they rushed through the parlor. -Did you catch anything about the guy?- 

-Yes, he has the same taste in ties Lassie has. My eyes are bleeding.- 

Shawn stopped by the main room corner, just back enough to sneak without being sneaked. Gus peered over his shoulder. 

The room was large, maroon wallpaper and burgundy furniture scattered among polished tables. Chunks of Archeological-ish stuff rested in glass cases along the walls, tweed-clad men bending over them or talking in soft tones. The little dais on the left was draped in green velvet. Shawn half-expected Sherlock Holmes to get out of the restroom with a smoking pipe. 

-What are we looking for exactly?- 

-The usual Gus. Anything fancy, or suspect, or both.- He said. -We have to hook someone. We should mingle with the crowd.- 

Gus didn’t even waste a look on him. He pointed to the heads crowded in front of the dais. 

-Which one?- 

-What about Winnie de Pooh in tweed?- 

-Got it.- 

They nodded, starting to slide through the crowd. The set prey was a middle-aged, spectacled man standing on the side, and he did look like the prep uncle of a teddy bear. Pressed waves of dark hair hovered over buttery cheeks and at least three chins. The deep green waistcoat stretched around the girth, cradled by little pale hands. 

-Excuse me, sir.- Shawn muttered when he got in hearing range. 

Winnie turned to them, wrinkling his plumpy red lips. The eyes behind the glasses sparkled. He had a deep, clear voice that screamed Fancy Faculty from miles around. 

-Ah! Don’t tell me.- 

They wouldn’t, mainly because they had no idea what to say. 

-You’re Professor Morrison and Stevens. The experimental archeologists from Berkeley.- -Coming here dressed like this, with a true celebrity expected for the same evening. And during Summer nonetheless.- He nodded in a flush of double chins. –Devoted.- 

It was not the word his Dad would have probably used, but anyway. 

-I suppose you’re here for Mister Walinor’s speech, right?- 

-Uh, yeah. That’s exactly what we’re about to say. We’ve just got here from the airport. We are deeply- _what was that expression in Lassie’s History Channel_? – _impressed_ by your work so far. We look forward to work with your colleagues.- 

Winnie bowed with unexpected grace. -Aloysius Notthingam, at your service. Head of History department at Santa Barbara college.- He straightened with a grin. -Ah! Anyway, you shall not fear over this: whoever you choose for a collaboration, you would have not a worry in the world, I promise.- 

He paused. 

-Except with Mr. Hyde, of course.- 

-There’s someone here called Mr.Hyde?- 

-Ah, Mr. Hyde. The devilish barber of Fleet Street.- 

-That’s Sweeney Todd, Shawn.- 

-So who I played in fifth grade _recital_?- Shawn shrugged it off. -Anyway, what were you saying Mr. Notthingam?- 

-Mr. Robert Hyde. I really should not speak ill of an absent colleague, but…surely he’s an original, if you catch my meaning.- 

Oh they did. 

-Don’t get me wrong, now. He’s clever, and even sharp. But he’s more, more of a treasure hunter than anything. He’s not exactly good for the image of our club. Especially considering the kind of background he came from.- 

-What kind of background?- 

Notthingam’s chins trembled with excitement. –Murder, gentlemen. Of his _own wife_.- 

Mh. That was unexpected. 

-Officially he had been cleared of all charges, of course, but. He still doesn’t feel like the most recommendable of fellows. Vikings knew it. When a man is touched by guilt and murder, it is forever. I wouldn’t let him come too close my daughters, for sure.- 

-You have _children_?- Shawn squeaked, and Gus was too baffled himself to react in time. 

-Of course _yes_. Why should I not…- 

Gus got a glimpse of the parlor. The flock of followers was pressing to pass, the special guest somewhere among them. Dorothy was glaring right at them from the corner. 

-Ah, nothing, absolutely nothing. Our faults. We better go now however. Thanks so much, Mister Notthingam. It has been all very, _enlightening_.- 

-My greatest pleasure, young men. We see at Solstice Dinner then.- 

Shawn waved wildly, keeping an eye to the door. –Sure. Whatever. Bye bye.- 

Shawn swirled around from Mr. Notthingam’s smiling face, and fled across the room as fast as metal-clad boots allowed him. They plunged in the exit corridor at record time. The conference was about to begin, they’d attract _really_ too much attention. And then they already got some good things. Mr.Hyde. The wife’s murder. It had possibilities. 

Gus’s glove suddenly clutched his shirt. 

-Shawn. Can we stop at the bathroom?- 

\- Look Gus, it’s five minutes to the Psych. We better get off, or Dorothy would do it for us.- 

-Please. I drank five sodas at lunch.- 

-Gus…- 

- _Please_.- 

Gus’s voice took an edge of plea. The toilet was not five steps down them. They were practically finished. Shawn sighed. 

-Ah. Fine. A bathroom is a safe enough place, right?- 

As it turned out, no, it was not a safe enough place. 

-Gus. Tell me it has not happened what I think has happened.- 

-It hasn’t happened.- 

-Liar.- 

Shawn had heard all his life people complaining about the absurd calamities he had collected since five; and for as much as time he’d tried to explain that he was rarely the director behind them. He wouldn’t ever say things happen despite him, but surely they took damn creative twists around him. For example, yeah, trying to rip your best friend’s pants off a toilet door while being dressed as a Viking. 

-How is it Shawn?- Gus asked from somewhere by his knees, while he leaned over to reach the rear of his pants. No comments. 

-Not well. How the Hell did you manage it however? You had to walk across a door, dammit.- 

He grimaced. 

-Gus. I fear we have to do a choice. The pants, or the freedom.- 

-You’re kidding.- 

He was not joking at all. It seemed suede pants twisted with door bolts in mysterious ways. 

-Man, I’m serious. It’s not a big deal. Home is two blocks away. C’mon, a good trust and we’re done.- 

-I’m not walking out of a fancy club in boxers, Shawn. I’m _not_.- 

-Gus- 

- _You’re not_. Period.- 

Shawn made a non-compromising sound. 

–Sorry buddy.- 

Strap. 

* 

Carlton Lassiter ended cleaning his bathroom little after ten p.m. He didn’t have neighbors to scream at because he wasn’t his mother, and he didn’t want to drink because he was not his father, so he cleaned. The day after he’d found Victoria’s card left on her empty side of the bed he had shot at the garage’s door and then cleaned it to the last spot. When Dad had fled for the last time he had reorganized his entire collection of soldier miniatures and brushed his frog’s basin until his hand got bright red. For Carlton Lassiter, pain smelled of floor detergent. 

He got up, cringing at the clack in his knees. He took off the rubber gloves and discharged the apron as well. He stood there in the silence. 

Damn he didn’t have another bathroom to clean. 

Kitchen and bathroom were his favorite. Pure surfaces, no tricky angles, everything easy to polish and shiny afterwards. Not like rugs. He hated to clean rugs. Twisted surfaces, Spencer-like surfaces. Full of corners and pointy things, and layers on layers on layers that a good sandpaper couldn’t even scratch. He was a _rug_ , that is. 

He turned to the mirror to change in his pjs and his eyes registered it. The wicked thing, the Personal cell. It had scarcely four numbers on the address. The screen was blinking. 

He wouldn’t check it. He was not a teen. Don’t pick it up Carlton. 

He picked it up. Shawn’s texts were rare and for the most part unintelligible. He took a pride in cutting words and banning apostrophes just to piss him off. But right now there were none. 

Carlton checked the calls too. Nothing. Of course. It was wise. He was too angry to talk anyway. Too angry. Talking with that smoothie-sucker banana-smelling idiot wouldn’t do a thing. He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to clean, and shot at the range for four hours, and clean _another damn bathroom_. 

It had started all so well, the night before. They had eaten Chinese, Spencer had actually gone to throw the plastic plates on his own. Asking the question had felt so right. Instead it had ended exactly the Clown Case: bloodily, noisily and with the distinct feeling someone had punched Carlton in the guts. It had been so stupid. Too soon. He should have known better. He could practically hear his Mother’s voice telling him he should have known better. It had been about the Volcano experiment at Science fair, but anyway. 

Well, today had not been totally terrible, at least. There had been another corpse, the Vikings’ intuition. And Adam, too. Carlton leaned against the doorway, remembering another night, a stupid boy waiting under the gym’s air pipes with a rucksack full of sandwiches and a ticket for San Fran. It had been stupid that too. 

He looked at the cell again, but just for a moment. Nothing. Not a problem. He was too angry anyway. Angry angry angry. 

Carlton pulled himself up, left the cellular on the drawer. He turned off the light on his spotless bathroom. 


End file.
